


The Beast You've Made of Me

by auroreanrave



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Ficlet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:52:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7697389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case goes a little bit wrong, and Max is there to patch Steve up afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast You've Made of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the third installment of this unofficial 'what if Steve was a werewolf' series and just a little idea that popped into my head. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Title comes from Florence and the Machine's 'Howl'.

The next case goes wrong, badly - the suspect shoots two bystanders and then wolfs out in the middle of a luau on the beach. It's only down to the intervention of Chin Ho's flying tackle and Steve's  that the suspect gets caught before he tears someone's throat out.

In fact, it's not even until Steve has the suspect in the back of a specialised squad car, and the two bystanders in ambulances for superificial gunshot wounds, that he notices the silver round in his shoulder blade, buried in flesh and muscle.

Max insists on taking him to a hospital, but Steve ignores him and shoulders his way into the morgue, Max on his heels. He sits on the blessedly empty slab, clean and smooth and sterile, peels off his now-ruined shirt, and waits for Max's sigh from behind him, tinged with a little frustration, and then the clatter of Max's medical sewing kit at his side.

"Whatever happened to staying safe?" Max asks.

"I'm sorry," says Steve. "Really. But it came down to him threatening innocent lives. No choice."

"No choice," Max agrees.

Steve winces as Max dabs rubbing alcohol onto the wound. The press of lips to the back of Steve's neck - cool and soft and fleeting - alleviates the discomfort.

"Hardly seems like something sterile, doc," Steve jokes.

"You're right. Maybe I should stop," replies Max.

"I never said that," argues Steve.

Max hums a little under his breath and prepares his needle and thread. The bullet hums painfully in his back - not lethal, nowhere near, but still enough to make him uncomfortable and hot.

Being near Max helps. Having Max's hands on his skin, the cool, confident pressure of them, his plainly sweet scent in the air, helps even more. It is a balm to his pain. His rage.

"You're doing so well," Max murmurs, and Steve freezes for a moment, before his brain melts into a warm, cooing puddle of nothingness. The wolf preens inside his mind. "So, well, Commander."

"Keep at that kinda talk, Max," says Steve, "and I'll be falling asleep on you."

Max's hands move deftly. Within moments, he plucks the bullet free - a small nasty wedge of dull silver, coated in slick blood - and puts it in a tray before emptying the tray out into the medical waste bin on the other side of the room.

Steve feels like he can breathe again. His body won't heal for a little while - or rather the wound won't - but Max has already begun sewing the wound up.

"You'll have to forgive me if the stitches are uneven," Max says. "Usually my patients are dead when I sew them up."

"I'll be honoured then," says Steve.

Max finishes and cleans up a little, then rests his hands on the wings of Steve's shoulder blades. Steve relaxes into them, head dropping forward a little; his touch is soothing still.

"Do you ever think about an ordinary life?" Steve asks Max. "You know... moving out Midwest, getting safe jobs. White picket fence. No chance of getting shot. Or, you know, minimal chance, anyway."

"We would get bored immensely," Max says, after a moment, "and I don't think you mean it at all."

"No," Steve sighs. He tilts his head up a little, to meet Max's eyes for the first time since they both entered the morgue. "I know. 'm just tired is all."

"Then let's go home," says Max. Steve pushes up to his feet and turns to meet Max. "We'll go and shower and sleep and enjoy the two days we've both been given by the department."

"Two days, huh?" Steve smiles wolfishly and bends down to kiss Max; all softness and sweetness, the hint of proprietary fang. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"I was asking myself the same thing," Max says, soft and quiet, his eyes dark. Steve wants to devour him for the rest of his life.

They kiss slowly for a little while, until Max pushes him back a touch. "Shirt. Shower. Sleep."

Steve grabs a spare shirt he keeps in Max's locker and puts it on as Max transfers everything over to the next coroner on shift, and Steve calls a cab to take them home.

They push through the doors, bodies aching and drowsy, and their hands tucked into one another's, warm and alive and solid, and into the new day.


End file.
